Part Four · VI

Later, when he recalled this moment, it all came back to Raskolnikov in this form.

The noise heard behind the door suddenly grew rapidly louder, and the door opened a little way.

“What is it?” Porfiry Petrovich shouted in annoyance. “I did warn you…”

For a moment there was no answer, but it was evident that there were several people behind the door and that they seemed to be pushing someone back.

“What’s going on there?” Porfiry Petrovich repeated in alarm.

“They’ve brought the prisoner, Nikolai,” came someone’s voice.

“Not now! Get away! Wait!… What has he come barging in here for! What sort of disorder is this!” shouted Porfiry, rushing to the door.

“But he…” the same voice began again and suddenly broke off.

For two seconds, no more, a real struggle went on; then suddenly someone seemed to shove someone else away with force, and right after that a very pale man stepped straight into Porfiry Petrovich’s office.

At first glance this man’s appearance was very strange. He was looking straight ahead of him, but as though he saw no one. Resolve flashed in his eyes, but at the same time a deathly pallor covered his face, as though he were being led to execution. His lips, gone quite white, were trembling slightly.

He was still very young, dressed like a common man, of medium height, lean, with his hair cut round like a bowl, and with thin, somehow dry features. The man he had unexpectedly shoved away was the first to rush into the room after him and managed to seize him by the shoulder: it was the guard; but Nikolai jerked his arm and broke loose from him once more.

Several curious people crowded in the doorway. Some of them were trying to push their way in. Everything described took place almost in a single instant.

“Get out, it’s too early! Wait till you’re called!… Why was he brought in ahead of time?” Porfiry Petrovich muttered in extreme annoyance, as if thrown off balance. But Nikolai suddenly went down on his knees.

“What are you doing?” Porfiry shouted in amazement.

“I’m guilty! The sin is mine! I’m the murderer!” Nikolai suddenly pronounced, as though somewhat out of breath, but in a fairly loud voice.

The silence lasted for some ten seconds, as though a stupor had come over everyone; even the guard recoiled and no longer went near Nikolai, but retreated mechanically to the door and stood there motionless.

“What’s this?” cried Porfiry Petrovich, coming out of his momentary numbness.

“I… am the murderer…” Nikolai repeated, after a tiny pause.

“What… you… What… Whom did you kill?”

Porfiry Petrovich was evidently at a loss.

Nikolai paused a tiny bit again.

“Alyona Ivanovna and her little sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, I… killed… with an ax. A darkness came over me…” he suddenly added, and fell silent again. He was still on his knees.

Porfiry Petrovich stood for a few moments as though thinking it over, but suddenly roused himself again in a flutter and waved his arms at the uninvited witnesses. They vanished in a flash, and the door was pulled to. Then he glanced at Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner staring wildly at Nikolai, and started toward him, but suddenly stopped, looked at him, at once shifted his gaze to Nikolai, then back to Raskolnikov, then back to Nikolai again, and suddenly, as though carried away, fell upon Nikolai again.

“Why are you running on ahead of me with your darkness?” he shouted at him almost with spite. “I haven’t asked you yet whether a darkness came over you or not… speak: did you kill them?”

“I’m the murderer… I’m making a statement…” Nikolai pronounced.

“Eh-eh! What did you kill them with?”

“An ax. I’d got it ready.”

“Ugh, he’s in a hurry! Alone?”

Nikolai did not understand the question.

“Did you kill them alone?”

“Alone. And Mitka’s not guilty and had no part in any of it.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry about Mitka! Eh-eh!”

“So how did you, well, how did you run down the stairs that time? The caretakers met the two of you, didn’t they?”

“That was to throw them off… that time… I ran with Mitka,” Nikolai answered, as though in a hurry and having got it ready beforehand.

“Well, there it is!” Porfiry cried out spitefully. “He’s not saying his own words!” he muttered as if to himself, and suddenly caught sight of Raskolnikov again.

He had evidently been so carried away with Nikolai that for a moment he had even forgotten about Raskolnikov. Now he suddenly came to himself, was even embarrassed…

“Rodion Romanovich, my dear fellow! Excuse me, sir,” he rushed up to him, “this won’t do, sir; if you please, sir… there’s nothing for you here… I myself… you see what surprises we get!… if you please, sir!…”

And taking him by the arm, he pointed him to the door.

“It seems you didn’t expect this?” said Raskolnikov, who of course did not yet understand anything clearly but had already managed to take heart considerably.

“Nor did you expect it, my dear fellow. Look how your little hand is trembling! Heh-heh!”

“And you’re trembling too, Porfiry Petrovich.”

“I’m trembling too, sir; I didn’t expect it, sir!…”

They were standing in the doorway by now. Porfiry was waiting impatiently for Raskolnikov to go through.

“So you won’t show me your little surprise after all?” Raskolnikov said suddenly.

“He says that, and his own little teeth are still chattering in his mouth, heh-heh! You are an ironical man! Well, sir, good-bye for now, sir.”

“As I see it, it’s good-bye for good!”

“As God wills, sir, as God wills, sir!” Porfiry muttered with a smile that had somehow gone crooked.

Passing through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people looked at him intently. In the entrance hall, in the crowd, he managed to make out both caretakers from that house, the ones he had called on that night to go to the district officer. They were standing there waiting for something. But no sooner had he gone out onto the stairs than he suddenly heard Porfiry Petrovich’s voice behind him again. Turning around, he saw that Porfiry was catching up with him, all out of breath.

“One little word, sir, Rodion Romanovich; as for all the rest of it, that’s as God wills, but all the same I’ll have to ask you a thing or two in proper form, sir… so we shall see each other again, yes, sir.”

And Porfiry stopped in front of him with a smile.

“Yes, sir,” he added once more.

One might have supposed that he wanted to say something more, but somehow it would not come out.

“And you must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovich, for what happened just now… I lost my temper,” began Raskolnikov, who had by now taken heart completely, to the point of an irresistible urge to show off.

“Not at all, sir, not at all, sir…” Porfiry took him up almost joyfully. “I myself, sir… I have a venomous character, I confess it, I confess it! But we shall see each other, sir. If God wills, we shall see a great deal of each other, a great deal, sir!…”

“And come to know each other finally?” Raskolnikov took him up.

“And come to know each other finally,” Porfiry Petrovich assented and, narrowing his eyes, looked at him very seriously. “Off to a name-day party now, sir?”

“To a funeral, sir.”

“Yes, of course, to a funeral! Look after your health, sir, your health…”

“And I really don’t know what to wish you on my side!” Raskolnikov took up, already starting down the stairs but suddenly turning back to Porfiry again. “I’d wish you greater success, but you see what a comical position yours is!”

“Why comical, sir?” Porfiry Petrovich instantly pricked up his ears; he too had turned to go.

“Well, how else? That poor Mikolka now, how you must have tormented and tortured him, psychologically, in your own fashion, until he confessed; day and night you must have been proving to him: ‘You’re the murderer, you’re the murderer…’—and now that he has confessed, you’ll start kneading him bone by bone all over again: ‘You’re lying, you’re not the murderer! You couldn’t be! You’re not saying your own words!’ Well, after that how can your position not be comical?”

“Heh-heh-heh! So you did notice that I said to Nikolai just now that he was ‘not saying his own words’?”

“How could I not notice?”

“Heh-heh! Witty, witty, sir. You notice everything! A real playful mind, sir! And you strike the most comical string of all… heh-heh! It was Gogol, wasn’t it, among the writers, who they say had that trait to the highest degree?”

“Yes, Gogol.”

“Yes, sir, Gogol, sir… until our most delightful next meeting, sir.”

“Until our most delightful next meeting…”

Raskolnikov went straight home. He was so confused and muddled that, having got home and thrown himself on the sofa, he sat for a quarter of an hour just resting and trying to collect his thoughts at least a little. He did not even attempt to reason about Nikolai: he felt that he was stunned; that in Nikolai’s confession there was something inexplicable, astonishing, that he could not possibly understand now. But Nikolai’s confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact became clear to him at once: the lie could not fail to come out, and then they would set about him again. But at least until then he was free and must certainly do something for himself, because the danger was inevitable.

But how great was it, though? The situation was beginning to clear. Recalling, in rough outline, as a whole, the entire scene with Porfiry just now, he could not help shuddering with horror once again. Of course he did not yet know all of Porfiry’s aims, could not grasp all his calculations of a while ago. But part of the game had been revealed, and certainly no one could understand better than he how terrible this “move” in Porfiry’s game had been for him. A little more, and he might have given himself away completely, in actual fact. Knowing the morbidness of his character and having grasped it and seen through it correctly at first glance, Porfiry had acted too boldly, it was true, but almost unerringly. There was no denying that Raskolnikov had already compromised himself too much, just now as well, but it had still not come to facts; it was all still only relative. But was he, though, was he understanding it all correctly now? Wasn’t he mistaken? What result exactly had Porfiry been driving at today? Had he really had something prepared today? And what exactly? Had he really been waiting for something or not? How exactly would they have parted today, if the unexpected catastrophe had not come along through Nikolai?

Porfiry had shown almost his whole game; he had taken a risk, of course, but he had shown it, and (so it kept seeming to Raskolnikov) if Porfiry had really had anything more, he would have shown that too. What was this “surprise”? Mockery? Did it mean something or not? Could anything at all be hidden under it that resembled a fact, a positive accusation? Yesterday’s man? Where had he vanished to? Where had he been today? For if Porfiry had anything positive at all, then it was certainly connected with yesterday’s man…

He sat on the sofa, his head hanging down, his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. A nervous trembling still went on all through his body. At last he stood up, took his cap, thought a moment, and went toward the door.

He somehow had a presentiment that, for today at least, he could almost certainly consider himself safe. Suddenly he felt something almost like joy in his heart: he wanted to get to Katerina Ivanovna’s as soon as possible. He was late for the funeral, of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there, right away, he would see Sonya.

He stopped, thought a moment, and a sickly smile forced its way onto his lips.

“Today! Today!” he repeated to himself. “Yes, this very day! It has to be…”

Just as he was about to open the door, it suddenly began to open of itself. He trembled and sprang back. The door was opening slowly and quietly, and suddenly a figure appeared—that of yesterday’s man from under the ground.

The man stopped on the threshold, looked silently at Raskolnikov, and took one step into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday, the same figure, dressed the same way, but a great change had taken place in his face and in his look: he now looked somehow woebegone, and, after standing a little while, he heaved a deep sigh. All that was missing was for him to put his palm to his cheek and tilt his head to one side for him to look completely like a peasant woman.

“What do you want?” asked Raskolnikov, gone deathly still.

The man said nothing for a while and suddenly bowed to him deeply, almost to the ground. At any rate he touched the floor with a finger of his right hand.

“What are you doing?” cried Raskolnikov.

“I’m guilty,” the man said quietly.

“Of what?”

“Of spiteful thoughts.”

They both looked at each other.

“I felt aggrieved. When you were pleased to come that time, maybe in drink, and called the caretakers to the police station and asked about the blood, I felt aggrieved that they let it go for nothing and took you for a drunk. So aggrieved I couldn’t sleep. And having remembered the address, we came here yesterday and asked…”

“Who came?” Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to remember.

“Me, that is, the one who wronged you.”

“So you’re from that house?”

“Why, I was right there, that very time, standing in the gateway with them, or have you forgotten? We’ve got our trade there too, from way back. We’re furriers, townsmen, we take work home… and most of all I felt aggrieved…”

And suddenly the whole scene in the gateway the day before yesterday came back clearly to Raskolnikov; he realized that besides the caretakers there had been several other people standing there then, women among them. He remembered one voice proposing to take him straight to the police station. He could not remember the speaker’s face and did not recognize it even now, but he remembered that he had even answered him something then, had turned toward him…

So this, then, was how all of yesterday’s horror had been resolved. The most horrible thing of all was to think that he had really almost perished, had almost destroyed himself, over such a trivial circumstance. So this man could tell nothing except about renting the apartment and the talk of blood. So Porfiry, too, had nothing but this delirium, no facts, nothing but psychology, which cuts both ways, nothing positive. So, if no more facts turned up (and they mustn’t turn up anymore, they mustn’t, they mustn’t!), then… then what could they do to him? How could they convict him finally, even if they did arrest him? And so Porfiry had only now found out about the apartment, only just now, and had not known before.

“Was it you who told Porfiry today… that I’d been there?” he cried, struck by a sudden idea.

“What Porfiry?”

“The examining magistrate.”

“I told him. The caretakers didn’t go that time, so I went.”

“Today?”

“I was there just a little minute before you. And I heard everything, all of it, how he was tormenting you.”

“Where? What? When?”

“Why, right there, behind his partition, I was sitting there the whole time.”

“What? So it was you who were the surprise? But how could this have happened? For pity’s sake!”

“Seeing,” the townsman began, “that the caretakers didn’t want to go on my word, because, they said, it was late already, and like as not he’d get angry that they hadn’t come at the time, I felt aggrieved, and couldn’t sleep, and started finding out. And having found out yesterday, I went today. The first time I came—he wasn’t there. I came an hour later—they wouldn’t let me in; the third time I came—they let me through. I started reporting it all to him, just how it was, and he started leaping about the room and beating his breast with his fist: ‘What are you doing to me, you robbers?’ he says. ‘If I’d known of such a business, I’d have had him fetched under guard!’ Then he ran out, called somebody, and started talking with him in a corner, and then he came back to me—and started asking and scolding. And he reproached me a lot; and I reported everything to him and told him that you didn’t dare answer me a word to what I said yesterday and that you didn’t recognize me. And then he started running about again, and kept beating his breast, and getting angry, and running about, and when you were announced—well, he says, get in behind the partition, sit there for now, don’t stir, whatever you hear, and he brought me a chair in there himself and locked me in; maybe, he says, I’ll ask you. And when they brought Nikolai, then he let me out, after you: I’ll send for you again, he says, and question you some more…”

“And did he question Nikolai in front of you?”

“As soon as he’d let you out, he let me out too, and started questioning Nikolai.”

The townsman stopped and suddenly bowed low again, touching the floor with a finger.

“Forgive me for my slander and my spite.”

“God will forgive,” answered Raskolnikov, and as soon as he had said it, the townsman bowed to him, not to the ground this time but from the waist, slowly turned, and went out of the room. “Everything cuts both ways, now everything cuts both ways,” Raskolnikov kept repeating, and he went out of the room in better spirits than ever.

“Now we’ll fight on yet,” he said with a spiteful grin as he went down the stairs. The spite, though, was aimed at himself: he remembered his “faintheartedness” with contempt and shame.